Making An Emperor
by literallywhat
Summary: Snoke's reign will be over soon. Hux, Phasma, and Kylo Ren decide to see to that, at the conspiracy-esque suggestion of a (slightly mad) new lieutenant named Brielle Green-and the unlikely foursome will set Hux on the throne. But they have no idea what they're really in for. Crack and shenanigans abound. Please read and review, lovely fellow fanfic enthusiasts :)
1. The Idea

"Are you ready to go yet?" Brendol was knocking on her door for perhaps the fourth time that evening, even though she knew they didn't need to leave yet. He was overly impatient, he was getting on her nerves, and he was clearly getting worried. But for all that, she knew he was right to be, because she and Kylo were never exactly compliant when it came to these ridiculous functions. She did not know why she was supposed to dance formally with people she worked with so informally the rest of the time, why it mattered, or why they treated her the way they did. She hated it.

"I won't open this door unless you go away."

She knew it was childish. She didn't care. He'd been on her all day. No more.

"Just remember you need to go to this ball out of armor." He had reminded her of this at breakfast, and when they passed each other on the bridge, and when he saw her drinking coffee after her shift, and probably a hundred other times that day. This was getting to be a little much.

"I _am_ out of armor, stop asking."

Captain Phasma finally opened the door to her apartment (though Brendol had not moved) in a deep blue gown which, try as she might, did not suit her at all. The worn expression on her face revealed that she was aware of this, however, and her clear annoyance nearly made her look like herself again. Brendol was being himself, and she was essentially fine with that, but she was about ready to tear the heads off everyone else in the Order. They "requested" (read: forced) her to go to these ridiculous dances, all to keep up appearances. And the General played their game, and so he forced her to play it too.

"You're lovely."

"That's precisely the problem, Brendol, if I am lovely, then your damnable fellow officers are going to hang around no matter that they know where my heart—"

"We all know where your heart lies, Phasma. Are we leaving yet?" Kylo Ren walked out of the opposite door wearing a suit and holding a coffee-pot—not a mug, mind you, the entire pot—and drinking out of it periodically.

Brendol looked him up and down as though he couldn't quite decide what to say, but finally settled on, " _Get a haircut, would you?_ "

"Oh, you tell her she's lovely and all you tell me is _get a haircut_?"

"She needs encouragement. You, on the other hand, already know what you look like, and you currently look like you are in dire need of a haircut."

Kylo made a face.

"Fine, you're gorgeous, now move."

"We're going to go to get caught in the space traffic if—"

"Space traffic? There isn't any space traffic! What are you _smoking_?"

"Been working planet-side too long. That aside, you know how I am — sixteen-twenty, every day" the knight announced proudly.

"Shut up."

"You started it. He started it, didn't he, Adrienne?" He turned to look at Phasma, his eyes asking her to take his side—or really any side, just once.

Phasma silently decided to stay out of it. They'd argue like this the entire way there, and could argue like this through the entire ball and then the entire way back, provided they weren't drunk by that point. But more than likely they would be precisely that, and she'd end up flying them home in either a state of utter hilarity, or unconsciousness, but thankfully not one of fighting one another.

They arrived at the place—a glittering and bright house—and only ceased yelling at each other when they entered the garden gate.

It was a long path to the front door. This was probably for purposes of intimidation, of showing off how rich he was, whoever owned the house, but Phasma didn't mind. She'd happily accept whatever kept her from the party, even for a very sort time.

Brendol took flowers from the massive garden (surely the Admiral who owned this place wouldn't notice, and Adrienne needed some sprucing up) and he started to twist them into a crown as they continued along the sidewalk, until he finally placed it carefully on Phasma's head. It did not, however, go unnoticed, and she didn't much appreciate it, though it was lovely enough. Bluebells and purple roses and one gold lily next to her ear, and she didn't want anything to do with it.

"What is this nonsense?"

"It's perfect. Perfect, perfect. Precisely what you need."

He knew, of course—he knew more than she did, certainly, but she would try to keep up, not that she necessarily wanted to. She was always being told to dress differently, more like the ladies of the Order, the wives and even the women who were generals and lieutenants were better at this than she was, but she just couldn't get the hang of it, and stubbornly, she did not want to.

"Now you two, I can't believe I have to say this, knight of my army and captain of my troops, be. Decent."

That was fair.

The fact was, Kylo and Phasma _weren't_ always decent. Like at the last ball, the New Year's ball—but there's no reason we need to discuss any of that now, especially not their impromptu musical interlude when the band took a break. We don't need to talk about Phasma's invented acoustic piece, _If you want to change the galaxy stop mourning a long-dead bantha on the holonet,_ even if it was rather funny. No, we don't need to talk about any of that.

They entered to find themselves on a balcony, a crowd of perfectly-dressed people on the dance floor below them, all caught up in the same waltz. This intimidated Phasma immediately, and probably more than it should have.

Brendol led them down the stairs.

"This is going to be the worst," Kylo whispered to Adrienne.

"Agreed."

But they went anyway, though reluctantly, because it was for the order, and because it was for Brendol.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - a - - - - - -

Across the room, Lieutenant Brielle Green watched them enter with a whisper of a smile on her face. She sat on a barstool, humming and drinking whiskey and wondering when this would be done. It was far too formal. She loved dancing, but what she loved was real dancing, not this nonsense.

For now, she studied the three unusual people entering the room, and waited. This would prove interesting. The first one looked to be the general from the _Finalizer_ , though she did not remember his name, and the two behind him—they were the ones who made that song about the bantha at the last ball, weren't they? They were.

She contemplated a second, then stood. She wanted to meet these three, for no reason other than — well — the Order had very little madness in it as it stood, and that should be corrected, and these three seemed to be the beginning of that correction.

She would not even have to move. The red-head had caught her eye and was walking over. She sat back up on the barstool.

"If I may introduce myself, Lady—"

She smiled. She found far too much joy in this particular moment of most conversations. "Lieutenant Brielle Green, actually" she said with what mockery of a curtsy she could make while seated.

"You're—"

"Don't worry. You'd not know it from the dress. Got a little out of hand making it, actually." This was true. She'd pieced it together in the weeks leading up to the ball as a sort of experiment, and she'd gotten rather carried away with it. It was floral and light blue and reached the floor in layers of every kind of material she could find on the star destroyer. And yet it worked.

It was not what you'd expect from someone with a military title. But Brielle herself wasn't what you'd expect from someone with a military title. It was, in fact, probably the grace of the stars more than her own competence that kept her job intact.

"You made—but—that aside, I'm Brendol."

Being who he was, he did not understand why she'd make a dress when she could have had one made precisely as she wanted it, and probably with much less hassle than she must have gone to making the one she was wearing, original though it may have been.

"Brendol. I like it."

 _How dare you decide to approve my name for me? As though you could_ disapprove _of it?_

But he did not say that, and instead ordered himself a drink. Straight whiskey, so as not to be outdone by this strange little lieutenant.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - a - - - - - -

"Who's gingerbread talking to?"

"How should I know, Adrienne?"

"All I'm saying is she's lovely."

Kylo made a face at her.

"Is the orchestra done?"

"We are not doing that again."

"Of course we're doing that again! No one knows who we are at these things. Anyhow, we were a hit the last time."

"Are you crazy? We were not a hit!"

"Not among the grand admirals, sure, but everyone else _loved_ us."

"Kylo."

"That's not a no."

"Well—"

"Ha! That is _not_ a no. And I bet you'd impress crazy floral over there."

"Who said I wanted to—"

"Let's go! Let's go let's go let's go."

Kylo Ren was an overenthusiastic puppy sometimes, which was rather disconcerting considering how utterly deadly he was all the rest of the time.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - a - - - - - -

 _No_. Brendol looked across the room, incredulous, as he saw Kylo and Phasma picking up guitars and walking to the front of the room. This was not going to go well. The last time this happened, he had to pretend that these two were most assuredly not the Captain and Knight of his battalion, and this was going to happen again.

"General—Lieutenant—" A small man walked over to them without much warning.

"Yes, Admiral."

"Johnson!" Brielle cried with a wide grin. "How goes it? — I mean — Admiral, ah — good to see you, very good." She took a long drink.

 _She's crazy. She's absolutely crazy._

Across the room, Phasma began to sing something that was thoroughly out of line. And yet the floor did not clear out. Everyone seemed somehow entranced by the song, including Brielle beside him. This was not what he expected.

"Dare I ask, is that the famed Captain Phasma?" Johnson asked quietly.

"I—um—"

"No worries. You don't have to tell me outright, but if you could introduce me to her, I'd like that very much."

This was the sort of request he got concerning Phasma almost whenever she took her helmet off in the presence of one of the upper-level officials, as though she was some sort of object to be traded. It never failed to disgust him. She was the most competent commander he'd ever met, and he would not compromise that in order to "introduce" her, or marry her off, or whatever, to one of his idiotic superiors. Phasma had some sort of charm about her, probably because nothing scared her, and they were attracted to it, perhaps because everything scared them. No matter what, her song did not give them the right to look at her like that.

He was protective of her as though she was his (much larger, much stronger) sister.

He declined to answer Johnson's question. Admiral or not, he would not torment his beloved Captain with the bizarre attentions of a random man. The last one he'd introduced her to had followed her for weeks. It would only be a headache for Phasma, and a nightmare for the man.

"You know what's curious," Brielle began from his other side.

"That everyone seems entranced by their song?"

"This, my friend, is a forty-eight x-wings cover. Of course everyone likes it. No, what's _curious_ is that Snoke never shows up to any of these things. Look around. Everyone else is here, and yet, our _beloved_ leader remains absent." Though no one else would have picked up on it, he heard the venom in the word _beloved._ There was enough to kill, all contained in that little word, provided that whoever was listening had the ears to hear it. No one else would have. He did, he knew, because he spoke of Snoke in the exact same manner. No matter what authority he had gained under the man's rule, he was also terrified of him.

And he wanted to reverse what had been done to all of them. Sometimes, that treacherous thought entered his head. Brielle's words made him remember the rage he held for their overlord. He did not want to, and he did not like it, but he couldn't help it. Not under her shining blue gaze. It would have been impossible.

This girl was not immune, then, to whatever the Academy had done to her, and she was not good at hiding it. Ah, she would not rise in the ranks, then. It was that sort who lost the game of power in the Order.

Brendol was completely thrown. This was not the kind of thing one said.

"I mean really, where do you figure he hides himself?"

This was _definitely_ not the kind of thing one said. And as Brielle had not had very much whiskey — at least since he arrived — he assumed it was not the alcohol talking.

"I've been here since I was thirteen years old. That's nine years. I've been here nine years, and I've never not once met anyone who met anyone who met Snoke, much less seen the man myself."

"Brielle, please. This is not the place for such theories." At twenty-two, she ought to know that.

"So says everyone, sunshine. I'm merely saying, how do we even know he exists?"

With that, she hopped off her barstool, gulped the last of her liquor, and spun off onto the dance floor. She did not even make the pretense of finding a partner, merely spun along on her own.

"Charming, isn't she." Johnson laughed. "I don't know how she's managed to stick around this long without getting fired or worse."

Brendol laughed, and nodded as another of the generals approached them.

"You see that girl?" he asked without preamble.

"Which?"

"The one with the crazy dress. We're assigning her—just to warn you, that is—we're assigning her to the _Finalizer_ next week.

Brendol almost dropped his drink. This was going to be something.

"Hey, you couldn't introduce me to that blond who's singing, could you?"

"I've, ah, never met her."

"Shame."

Johnson squinted at him. "But didn't you say—"

"That was your speculation, Admiral. I maintain that I do not know her."

"You came in with her!"

"That means nothing." He made his best imperious face, looking as though perhaps he simply thought he was too good to meet every person who travelled with him. That would certainly be believable, considering the outlandish persona he'd built up over the years.

At the front of the room, Kylo and Phasma continued to sing, oblivious to everything except their own crowd-entrancing song.


	2. All the Coffee

"And then—and then—" Brendol was almost laughing too hard to finish his sentence. "And then she pretty much—basically said, _yes, I made this dress, also, do you think the Supreme Leader is a conspiracy theory?_ "

Phasma, being sober, had no idea why this was funny.

"Don't we speak with him _daily_?"

"She thinks that, since we've only ever seen him in hologram—" at this he started laughing again, "she thinks that makes a good case that he's _not_ _real!"_

Also not funny.

"Phasma, _Phasma,_ Adrienne Liliana _Phasma, Captain—"_ Kylo began poking her arm from the seat behind her. _Also, how did he know her middle name?_ It scared her a little.

"What?"

"Can we get coffee? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?"

"We're already offworld, we're going to be back at the Finalizer within—"

"Just—just _one_ coffee. Just get planet-side for one coffee. We're in a tiny little ship and you could totally park it somewhere and—Adrienne—I want — a _latte."_

"How the mighty have fallen."

"Excuse you, General!"

"A latte is not coffee. You'd never drink that sober."

"Well lucky for _you,_ gingerface, I'm _not_ sober _."_

Despite this, Phasma decided to land planetside, for a moment, to get them coffee. They'd done enough this evening, she might as well give them that. And they were her brothers, she reflected. The brothers she'd never had, never asked for, never knew she wanted or needed—but her brothers nonetheless.

This was the sort of thing that happened after galas and balls and events: the two men were drunk, and she rambled along hoping for them to remain peaceful with each other. That was how it went, and that was how it would always be—more than likely—and she remained as she was, taking care of them quietly, caring little what spats they got themselves into, trying not to get involved.

She did not mind. In the quiet moments when her heart remembered songs she knew before her conditioning as a trooper, she knew she loved them. She loved them enough to fight for them in battle, surely. But that kind of love was shared by too many to count, and it could be manufactured.

Love—real love—was that, to be sure. But it was also a simple measure of things like this—landing on a thoroughly random planet to get them all coffee, at three in the morning.

"All right, now you two stay here while I go and—"

"No. We have to—we have to go in with—because of—reasons—important reasons? Important reasons like I'm a _general_ and I can do what I want!"

"What he said."

This did not really work, since Brendol was relying on a rank that Kylo didn't have in order to get her to let him out of the ship, but there was no use in arguing. They were drunk and stubborn, and she assumed they'd be able to keep it together enough to walk in and walk out of a coffeehouse anyway.

"Fine."

This is how all three of them, two exceedingly intoxicated, ended up standing in front of the counter of a local place called Twin Suns Coffee, although she could not explain why Kylo was eating sugar packets. This escaped her.

"Can I have _all_ the coffee please?" Brendol was leaning precariously over the counter, looking intently into the eyes of an over-cheerful barista.

"Sir, we only have three sizes, and all isn't one—"

"But I'm a _general"_ he protested, laughing too much to be believed.

" _Hey Angela, is_ all the coffee _a drink I don't know about?"_ she yelled in the vague direction of the back of the store.

A resounding " _No!"_ echoed from a doorway behind her.

"I—I'm sorry for my friends. They're very drunk. Can we all just get coffee? Just plain and normal coffee."

"Okay but can I have twelve extra shots of espresso in mine? Cause of I'm a general?"

"I mean, I suppose I could—" the barista looked thoroughly confused.

"No don't give him that," Phasma put in quickly. "He'll be awake for eight days."

—-a—-

One week later, Lieutenant Brielle Green boarded the Finalizer.

It wasn't a bit different from her last ship, but then again, all of the First Order's ships were the same. Gray. Brielle's vague memories of wildflowers and vast stretches of green hills often occurred to her during these times, when she boarded another ship only to find it again colorless, she craved light and color, and neither was here. The Academy attempted to burn it out of her, of course, and she attempted then to burn it out of herself, either with rage or with work, but it never left her. She channeled it mostly into the dresses she made, and otherwise tried to keep it hidden, though she knew she would never rise in the ranks.

Sometimes she regretted that she was not the sort of person to rise. And sometimes she was grateful for it.

Anyway, she carried three things: a cup of coffee, an acoustic guitar case, and a backpack. That was all. She travelled light, probably because she was always hoping to travel farther than she did, always preparing to travel farther than she did, always talking herself up to run away and then talking herself back down, realizing she'd be caught, she'd be found, no matter what she tried.

And, with a deep breath, she remembered the first lesson she'd learned in school. _She had to remain loyal._ The Academy had put that in her mind from the first. The trouble was, loyal to what? A vague idea of organization and order? A _hologram?_ Her superiors?

This wouldn't do. These questions wouldn't do.

The responsible thing would be reconditioning. But then, she didn't want that. Like the wildflowers, she couldn't quite fully get rid of it. Nothing would fully get rid of it. Which prompted to do irresponsible things, like ask some ginger man last week whether he thought Snoke existed. If, however, she were drawn up on charges for it, she could say that questioning his existence was not questioning her loyalty to the idea. They would probably praise her for that.

Then again, that was not, nowhere near, her thought process.

The apartment they gave her was furnished but not decorated, as usual, and she put her things down and spun once, slowly, wondering how she would — and whether she even could — make this her home.

Well. She would think about that later. For now—because travel made her sick—she curled up in the middle of her yet-unmade new bed, and fell asleep.

—-a—-

Across the ship, the general and Kylo Ren were talking to a hologram of Snoke. The conversation had begun with Snoke saying something like:

"We are close to beginning the project that will bring us to true power."

and he had explained the idea of Starkiller Base to them.

They were not prepared.

Kylo was not prepared for Brendol pulling him into a closet when the meeting was over and they walked out into the hall, either, but he figured he'd roll with it. If the man was going to kiss him, well, he'd deal with that when it happened. Cross that bridge when they came to it. He'd never imagined it occurring, but then again, there was all manner of unpredictability in the galaxy, wasn't there?

However, that particular unpredictable didn't happen.

"Listen, Ren," he started this in a hushed voice, as if Snoke could still hear them.  
"We can't do this."

"Do what? Stand in a broom closet conversing about who-knows-what?"

" _This._ Starkiller. Do you have any idea what would happen if that kind of project was completed?"

"No?" He was trying to suppress his desperate disapproval of the entire plan, in order that none of his fellow knights or their Leader felt it, but in truth, he was terrified. The Force would be put so off-balance by that much death—he didn't even want to consider it. It would cause a shift so immense, so significant, that he didn't want to think about what the fallout might be. He had no idea what kind of disturbances that would cause in the Force. And he didn't want to find out.

"Look, I'll be the first to admit I'd do anything to achieve the Order's goals, but this is the kind of destruction even I don't think about. It's madness. The plans for that weapon—eating stars, spitting something out that's so all-consuming it could destroy a whole system—that's not—that's not fighting, that's not war, that's unnecessary chaos. Speeding up entropy at a senseless rate. And I don't like the sound of it."

"Well what do you propose we do?"

For once in Kylo Ren's life, Brendol marveled, he wasn't arguing.

"I don't know, run it by Phasma? Comm her, see if we can talk it over at her apartment?"

They re-entered the hall and walked in silence across the Star Destroyer to the door of Phasma's apartment.

—a—

"He wants us to do _what?"_ Phasma—though perhaps she should be called Adrienne in this particular moment—hopped down from counter of her yellow kitchen (which she'd painted herself in her spare time when they arrived on the Finalizer, to remind her of suns she seldom saw now) and began pacing, pacing, pacing. "That's outrageous."

"We said the same thing," Kylo crossed her path briefly, going to the coffee-pot which had just finished brewing.

"Ah—don't drink right from it! I want some too!"

"Fine." He pulled mugs from the cupboard, and they got back to the issue at hand.

"What do we do?" she asked.

"We were hoping you'd know," Brendol admitted.

Each of the three put on a front for the rest of the Order, as though each thought they knew everything, but when they were alone in Phasma's apartment with a problem like this, they would admit to weakness. It was an unspoken agreement. It was safety, if sometimes punctuated by bickering.

Kylo was chugging coffee at an unprecedented rate. But seeing as this was an unprecedented sort of problem, he thought this was probably justified.

"Hang on. Who was that girl you were talking to, Brendol, the one at the party last week?"

"Oh, her—I remember her a little. She thought the Supreme Leader was a conspiracy theory or something like that?"

Adrienne smiled briefly, remembering his request for twelve shots of espresso, and Kylo addressing him as _gingerface_ for the entire ride home.

"Was her name Brielle?" she asked, wondering if it was too good to be true, but practically remembering a name. "We're getting a new lieutenant, starting tomorrow, and it seems to ring a bell—Brielle Green—is that her?"

"I think so, yes."

"She's not like the rest of them, is she?"

"Can't imagine."

"I'd propose we let her in on this."

"Why? We don't even know her!"

"And what do we know of her?" Adrienne continued undeterred. "We know she doesn't necessarily believe in Snoke's existence. We know she's willing to bring that up when she's got minimal liquor in her. We know she makes dresses—"

"How does that make her trustworthy?"

"Fair point, Kylo—we don't know it makes her trustworthy, just that it's unusual. Look at me, do I make dresses?"

"Do you voluntarily _wear them?_ "

"Touche. What I'm saying, however, is that we might need another set of eyes on the problem, and she might be the only one who we can trust."

With that, she walked out of the room, humming _you are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy—when skies are grey…_

 _a/n: I don't really know what I'm doing but please review! I appreciate comments of all kinds!_


End file.
